


Natural Harmonics

by starkind



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Iron Man (Movies), Justice League - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover Pairings, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, M/M, Multi, Rock Stars, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-27 12:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13881102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkind/pseuds/starkind
Summary: The Avengers: A crazy-popular rock band with a charismatic/eccentric singer.The Justice League: A struggling indie-rock band with a scheming/mastermind lead guitarist.Somewhere along these lines, things turn mighty awkward.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This little crack-fest was born out of a stupid idea which has nothing to do with superheroes at all. Except for if you think rock stars are superheroes, then this fic might be worth your while. Emphasis on might. I don't expect a lot of love for this one, but I wanted to share it nonetheless. Also, there is one quote from a Christian Bale interview that kind of got the ball rolling:
> 
> BALE: I've always thought, if I was in a band, I'd never want to be the lead singer.  
> ESQUIRE: Bassist? Drummer?  
> BALE: Well, I've got to admit to a bit of ego. I'd have to be lead guitarist [laughing].
> 
> source: https://www.esquire.com/entertainment/a8920/christian-bale-interview-1210/
> 
> Okay, Sir, your wish is my command...

“I think Bruce needs a mullet.”

Said Bruce looks, or rather glares daggers over to where the cheeky voice of his band colleague had come from. Hal Jordan, keyboarder and designated asshole of the band (at least according to Bruce) points at him from behind his keyboard and just grins even wider. “For real. He's got the scruff, the headband, and the raccoon eyes. Only thing missing is an ape drape, et voila – our very own Solid Snake.”

When they made the transition from garage to stage, they had chosen to divert from their true identities either by costume or by obscuring facial features. On stage, Bruce's eyes and upper part of the face are always hidden behind a thick black stripe of camouflage paint and a dark bandana. He hates to be recognized and therefore tries to keep a sense of anonymity, as weird as that is, being a burgeoning rock star.  
  
While Bruce went for the warpaint, Hal chose a mask. Clark uses contact lenses instead of glasses and Diana just wears her hair open. The two of them are the most easy-going of the band when it comes to being recognized in public. Hal, the aforementioned jerk, always goes and drops his mask at the first sight of a remotely attractive pair of legs and/or boobs, so he, too, is really not taking things as serious as he should.  
  
Besides that, it does not sit well with Bruce how Jordan still insists on playing the dumb keyboard when he could be playing bass. It is probably the direct comparison to Bruce that he fears. Thinks Bruce. He knows he is the best goddamn guitarist around, so Jordan tries to find other ways to infuriate him. Cue in the reason why there is a PlayStation installed in their band trailer.

The number of times Hal's very vocal Metal Gear Solid marathons have woken Bruce during the day when he tried to take a nap are infinite. Of course, that does not make their time together easier. Add a constant level of jibber-jabber, and voila – a recipe for disaster. Or a brain tumor. Bruce does not know what is worse.  
  
“Shut up, Hal!”  
  
“Why B, you've chosen to go down that dark, brooding, dramatic route, not me. I got the bright green, I'm positively glowing.”

No, apparently Hal Jordan does not know when to shut up. It is a serious character flaw; one that he chalks up under charisma, and Bruce under severe nuisance that needs to be avoided at all costs. Bruce's black matte electric guitar – the customized one with the small, silver bat shape on the lower half of the fingerboard – then gives a high-pitched scream of revolt at being manhandled out of its stand by its owner.

"If only your finger work would be as convenient and fluent as your half-witted remarks.”

That hit. Bruce nevertheless can hide his triumphant sneer, because he is too dark and brooding to grin.

Before things can escalate, Clark, their solid rock of peace and tranquility, holds up a hand and gives them both a stern look. He is always halcyon whenever he is not behind that huge, impressive set of drums of his; maybe because he goes and channels any potential rage he might ever feel right into the snare and the bass drum. “Now, now, guys, this is ridiculous. Let's get back to track 16, shall we?”  
  
Diana hops off the Marshall boxes, puts her drink aside, and grabs the mic.  
  
“Finally.”

*****

“No, no, NO!”

The feedback of the PA system screeches through the vast hall, making all roadies cover their ears with expressions of pain. From where he is sitting in the first row of the empty auditorium, Nick Fury, band manager extraordinaire, throws up both hands in exasperation and slips the big headphones off his head.

“What the fuck is wrong?”

On stage, lead singer Tony Stark does a 'Mean Girls' worthy flip of his shoulder-length locks, cocks a hip, and puts his arms akimbo. He is not wearing one of his trademark stage costumes today, but has settled for an equally hilarious combo of non-matching, garish colors like a pink sleeveless shirt, a green cardigan he slid down on one shoulder, and some jersey gray harem pants on blue high-top sneakers. 

“I am very, very, very high maintenance, Nick, you should know that by now.” He steps back from the microphone and points at something above his head. Everyone cranes their neck. “And I can't work when there's a whole bunch of counterweights hanging from the ceiling like nut sacks of old geezers in a Finnish sauna.” To his left, Steve takes his hands off his guitar and rubs his face with a suppressed groan.

Poor vanilla cone Stevie always is uncomfortable with crude language, but Tony is not and he cannot help it. If something irks him, it has got to go vocal. Behind them, Thor holds onto the reverberating snare drum with two fingers until it stills. He grins along, because if somebody is down with Tony's lingo, it is the big blonde from the North. Lead bassist Barton then steps up close to the microphone with a grin. 

“Quick background story on this one: Tony's been to one of those swinger clubs recently but took the wrong entrance, so he's a little touchy on the subject of balls dangling in his face.” To go with his made-up two cents, Clint plays a quick riff on his bass that everybody knows and recognizes from Seinfeld. It has the desired effect and great laughter erupts all around the arena, even if Tony flips him off, chuckling.

Nick Fury, manager of The Avengers - renowned and famous rock band of the century - decides to give up. For the moment. He peels out of the seat to get another cup of coffee and hands his notes on a clipboard over to Maria, his assistant. She in turn casts him a sympathetic glance before she takes a couple of riggers along to go over the construction again. It is going to be a long day, and an even longer night.

*****

“We should wear capes.”  
Bruce almost has an aneurism at yet another of Hal's idiotic ideas. Seriously, does this guy have no filter?  
“That's impractical as nothing else.”  
  
Clark, however, does not look as disgusted as Bruce (he never does). “That drummer from The Avengers wears one, too.” There is uncertainty in his voice, and his gaze flickers from Bruce over to Hal who gives him a thumbs up. It does not take long until Clark gets one in bright red. It flows and wafts dramatically whenever he goes and takes a seat behind his drums. Bare-chested, because... aesthetics.

Bruce thinks it's more along the lines of theatrics, but no one asks him. Especially not when he goes and burns the black cape they bestow upon him in the backyard, after getting entangled in a Marshall Tower during rehearsal. Hal, the idiot, nearly laughs himself silly. Bruce nearly goes and decapitates him with the sharp end of his guitar.  
  
No. Capes.

*****  
  
“What do you mean we need to be put in check? We're no fucking team of busking rookies, Nick. We've already agreed to a different supporting act this time, it's shady as fuck to want us to sign this now.” Tony Stark, beyond incensed, points at the offending paper in between them. It's an NDA, and Steve who sits next to him has the decency to look not the slightest bit affronted at his f-bombing rant.

Nick rolls his one good eye at them and slams the signed NDAs from Thor and Clint on the table, like he is in the final stages of winning a fucking game of Texas Hold'em. Tony does not mind a good game, if the cards are played right. But he has something against the term 'hold'em', especially in the same context of an NDA. “Yeah, no, not signing these, Nick, sorry to burst your bubble there.”

Tony rises to his feet and struts out of his manager's office before he slams the door with a satisfying loud bang. He goes and lights up a cigarette in the hall, right under the sign that reads No Smoking Area and waits for Steve to follow suit. By the time the blonde exits the office, the whole corridor smells like tobacco. Tony leans against the wall, one foot up, and glares at his band colleague. 

"Did you know?"  
Steve does not answer him right away. He hems and haws until Tony blows a gust of smoke right into his face.  
"Yes."

The rest of the glimmering stub drops to the floor and gets crushed below Tony's heel before the latter turns and walks away. From that moment on, there is dissension in the lines of The Avengers. It is underlying, but it is there, tangible. Everyone feels it, yet no one dares to address it. Their heavily anticipated world tour is about to start soon and they cannot afford any hitches now whatsoever.

Nick Fury lets the delinquent be but keeps the blank NDA form in the drawer of his desk.

For now.

*****

They are opening for low again, and Bruce is playing yet another aggressive set of warm up riffs. So far, he has destroyed two picks and is working hard on the third. Once he played until blood ran down the strings without him really noticing, so intense was his solo. Some of the cuts even left palpable scars. Good times.

Hal Jordan appears in his line of view, sauntering around stage in a far too casual fashion. He stares at his mobile phone, looking as if he were deep in thought, which, to Bruce Wayne, is an oxymoron in itself. The satanic side of Bruce turns up the volume, adjusts the pick in between calloused fingers, and digs in. The loud tremolo squeal not only startles Hal right next to the Marshall Tower but makes everyone around flinch.

Pinch harmonics is Bruce's trademark move during all of their concerts. The audience just loves it if he makes his guitar squeal out loud, with the whammy bar or even without. Oh yes, he is good at making things (and people) squeal, Bruce thinks with a dark grin and lets the sound linger in the open before it slowly fades out. Jordan curses a colorful string of expletives into his direction, but Bruce does not mind.

When he hears him say the word Avengers, however, he perks up. They have a real manager, Hal remarks, not without a hint of envy. It prompts Bruce to yank the B string a little too hard. He would have never agreed to do this if they were not for the nice, and hopefully monetizing crowd exposure that comes with opening for The Avengers.

Bruce's fingers curl around the whammy bar, and his guitar gives another, albeit more subdued squeal. He wants The Avengers to squeal, wants the JLA to finally step out of their damn shadow once and for all.  He also knows it is not going to work if Clark does not take their whole management thing more serious. “Clark and I are very well capable of leading the Justice League, if it wasn't for...”

He glowers at his friend making moon eyes at Diana and her short shorts.

“... his ADD.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's guitar (ETA: Switched the original one for a higher quality model, because B can afford it):  
> http://www.ibanez.com/products/eg_detail18.php?data_id=390&color=CL01&area_id=3&year=2018&cat_id=1&series_id=1
> 
> The thing Bruce does with his guitar sounds like this (beware of the volume!):  
> https://youtu.be/2bmou13DGyk?t=116


	2. Chapter 2

“Who are those guys again?”  
  
Tony skips and stretches backstage, getting ready for their upcoming show. Clint is quick to help him out. “The Justice League.” Stark's curls hang all over his face and he has to brush them back with both hands as he straightens up. “Never heard of 'em.” Clint grabs a flyer from a nearby amplifier case and shoves it into his face. “Something like an alternative rock band, I think. Pretty dark and heavy, too.”

Tony studies the names and faces on the flyer until he flicks it aside and peeks out of the curtain at the stage. Clint joins him. After watching the lead guitarist's stoic close-up on the jumbotron for the longest time, Clint leans in to make sure Tony hears him over the ear-deafening riffs. “Oh man, does he got love in his eyes or what?” Tony snorts, focused on the way the guy's dexterous fingers fly over the fretboard.

“Yeah, the kind that doesn't care if you're interested or not, because damn straight it's going to happen.” Crude alpha-male laughter erupts and Clint raises a brofist that Tony accepts. Commotion erupts backstage and they hurry to get ready because they are the next ones out.

The last gig before the start of their 'Avenge The World' Tour takes place in Fresno, California. It is a bit like a home game for Tony, who is originally from New York but owns a posh mansion in Malibu these days. The crowd is hooting like crazy when the whole arena plunges into darkness and a familiar guitar intro reverberates through the air.

Drums set in just as five huge spotlights from above illuminate stage and audience like searchlights from a police chopper.

"Hellooooo Fresnooooo!”

Tony's deep, disembodied voice booms through the vast hall, sending the crowd into even greater ecstasy. Then the lights come on and Tony jumps down from the elevated part of the stage where Thor sits behind his drums, wearing a stylized breastplate on bare skin, and a wide grin. His blonde locks are blowing in the wind machine as he gives a little twirl of his drumsticks before setting up a strong rhythm.

Stark is wearing a sparkling red overcoat, black skinny pants with long golden fringes on the sides, and golden high-top plateau sneakers. His dark locks are framing his face like a lion's mane, and when his face gets shown on the jumbotron, his goatee also holds specks of glitter. Microphone in hand, he sashays over to interact with both Clint and Steve who are shredding away in their respective costumes.

Barton wears a skin-tight purple, sleeveless jumpsuit with wrappings around his biceps, and a pair of purple mid-calf boots right out of a Robin Hood flick. Steve looks like the beacon of American patriotism in his blue, white, and red spandex suit with its bright silver star on his chest. His guitar, too, is painted like the American flag. After grinning at both of them, Tony goes and attaches the mic to the stand.

He takes the opportunity to make a gyrating motion against it. “Fresno - are you ready to fucking rock tonight?" The sea of faceless silhouettes goes audibly bonkers. There are banners floating in the audience, reading 'Fresno ♥ The Avengers' and 'Tony Please Marry Me!!!' which makes said man giggle and blow a kiss at the banner-holding damsel who looks like she is just about to pass out just then. Stark's grin turns feral.

“Ohhh yeah.”

From his place at the left side of the stage, hidden from the spectators, Bruce Wayne watches Stark prance and sway his hips to the first song of the evening. Clark appears behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder, a wordless indicator that they are packed up and ready to go. Wayne nods, eyes still trained on the stage. They narrow when Stark then seductively lets his shiny coat slide down to reveal a slim, black tank top.

At the sight of Tony's wiry upper arms, the female part of the crowd increases their screaming tenfold.

Bruce turns around and follows Clark over to where their tour van is parked up at the back entrance.

*****

“No. No more co-headlining. I want a double headlining set for a European Tour or else we're not going.” Bruce's quiet voice reaches Clark's ears. His hearing always improves fast after a concert. Up front, Hal is driving the van, as usual, with Diana riding shotgun, as usual. She says she gets seasick in the back. The boys know it is a lie. They still let her. Clark glimpses around his seat to watch his teammate talk on the phone.

He does not know who is on the other end, maybe some tour booking agency, promoter or the likes, but from the sound of Bruce's voice, he pities the poor soul. Twenty seconds and a dull sound later, Bruce was on the phone and the phone is on the floor, likely broken from the heavy impact. However, Bruce is generously funded by his deceased parents and seems to have a never-out-of-stock supply when it comes to, well, anything.

His long fingers start to drum an impatient and aggravated rhythm onto the armrest of his seat. Clark raises an eyebrow at him. “They said we need a male singer if we ever want to make it to the big stages, let alone be a headliner.” Apparently, even generously funded seems to have its limits. Clark blows out his cheeks and runs a hand over his hair in an attempt to smother his one prominent, dark lock back.

“Chauvinistic.”  
A grim nod.  
“You don't say. But Diana's hinted at being open to another singer, so we should start to look around.”

His friend and co-founder of The Justice League joins in his nodding, albeit less convinced.

*****

The kickoff for the 'Avenge The World' Tour goes well. They are in Calgary and the whole team is eager, routinized, and pumped to rock. Their backstage prep is, as usual, a rather quiet process, but offers an abundance of energy drinks to amp up the mood even more. After Canada, Denmark and Europe are next on the agenda. In less than ten days, The Avengers tour Copenhagen, Paris, Munich, Rome, and Athens.

Steve gets a lot of kitschy memorabilia, Thor gets to work on his tan, Clint gets mild food poisoning, and Tony gets laid nearly every night.

*****

“I'm gonna write a book. My memoirs. Got so many skeletons in the closet to share with the world, it's insane!”

There goes Bruce's latest attempt at setting a new personal record. A new, personal record of not wanting to strangle Hal Jordan with his spare set of Elixir Nanoweb strings. The urge lasts about five minutes before he forces himself to admit defeat. Not for lack of wanting, rather because his Elixir Nanowebs are nice and new and not to be sacrificed as a piece of evidence for the cops.

“No, you're not.”

Bruce is smart. He made them sign things they had no idea of at the beginning of their career. Especially Jordan, whom Bruce is still surprised has not signed with three X on the dotted line. So they do teach writing in the zoo. Good thing they did not teach him how to read. “And why is that, Mister Party-Pooper?” Hal's stance and voice turn cocky. His own grin should not turn this feral, Bruces knows but he is only human, too.

At least to an extent.

“Because I got your signed NDA, secured in a safe place, and I fully intend to sue your ass into the next century if you dare to so much as take a breath in the presence of a ghostwriter.” Hal, incensed and shocked in equal shares, looks over at Clark for help. Their mild-mannered drummer gives a shrug that borders on capitulation. No one messes with Bruce Wayne, no one. Get with the program.

*****

The Nippon Budōkan in Tokyo is the final stop on the Avenge The World Tour, and like all of their previous shows, it is completely sold out. As always, they give everything - Tony is dripping wet, performing his heart out, but the Japanese audience remains, one could say, politely reserved. Neither of them has been prepared for the intercultural shock, and afterward, backstage, emotions are glum.

Steve peels out of his tight boots that make an obscene squishy sound. Tony's glittery stage makeup is completely washed away, and his hair looks as if he just came out of the shower. “I'm not doing that ever again. This is shit.”

“You're just pissed because you didn't get to peek under one of those kimonos.”

Clint then plays that annoying little Seinfeld bassline again, and that time, Tony almost hits him.

*****

As it turns out, neither Bruce's threats nor his money galore can help the fact that they keep being rejected by most renowned concert management agencies out there. “Too metal for a chic-leading group, too mellow for a hard rock band.” At least that is the usual verdict they get after sending in their tapes.

Bruce takes the opportunity and blames Hal Jordan because he A) needs a scapegoat, and B) knows that Diana is too precious an ally to have Clark side with her if he steps on her toes, so Hal gets the full brunt of his ire. “You'll need to switch to bass or else we'll never make it.” Jordan looks just the right bit ticked off for Bruce to enjoy it. “I thought it was about an additional male singer?” Thin lips quirk in their usual, sarcastic way.

“That, too. Don't get any funny ideas.”  
Hal bristles.  
“Why, you never heard me sing.”

“Thankfully not.”

Diana breaks the tension between her boys by stepping up in between them, holding them at arms' length with her hands on each of their testosterone-swelled chests. “Shut it you two. I don't mind another guy. What's one more, give or take.” Pretty sure Bruce saw Clark just wince over there in the corner.

Anyway.

Audition time.

*****

The simmering problems behind the scenes of The Avengers bubble to the surface right after their return to the States. They culminate in a huge fallout between Tony and Fury, to which Tony then goes and gets smashed almost every damn night out on the town, partying hard alongside Slash and other rock stars. There is substance abuse and indecency, and the press has a field day upon the piping hot mess that is Anthony E. Stark.

When he does show up for one of their band meetings, Tony is sporting a wavy shag that resembles a mullet, his hair chopped a good eight inches. Steve does a double-take, Clint doubles over laughing, and Thor goes and doubles the fun by saying he is going to shed his long, thick blonde mane as well. Fury is pissed beyond belief, and there is talk about an injunction. That is where shits hits the proverbial fan.

No one talks about an injunction to Tony Stark. No one. Talk about being a full-tilt diva and all that.

And that is how Tony Stark ends up auditioning for The Justice League.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers' opening is heavily inspired by Van Halen's 1984 opening in Montreal  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxuTZzuivNE  
> (too bad the video quality sucks but you'd get the idea)
> 
> And the familiar guitar intro of the Avengers' concert goes a little something like this:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mclAqQ5GVaI
> 
> Also, Tony's interaction with Slash is RDJ's fault, case in point:  
> http://awesomepeoplehangingouttogether.tumblr.com/post/8694642768/robert-downey-jr-and-slash  
> https://weheartit.com/entry/264749255


	3. Chapter 3

Four pairs of eyes watch the short, bouncy dude with the too big and too round sunglasses getting ready. They are inside, so why Stark keeps them on is beyond anybody's guess, but they are all eccentric in some way or another, and there's nothing better than a set of freakish attitudes to go hand in hand with being a rock star. Bruce secretly suspects the scrawny guy to be on uppers of some kind but holds his tongue.

The way he fidgets and rubs his nose are strong indicators. Tony then goes up to the mic, winks down at Diana who has taken a seat in the audience's room to watch them and turns around to the guys behind him. “How 'bout some sweet 'Lick It Up' by KISS. Can you give me that?” Clark and Hal nod, Bruce groans as he grips his fretboard. It prompts Stark to put his arms akimbo.

“Hey, you, Boogeyman in black. I heard that. Play nice and gimme a little KISS.”  
  
Stark makes a duck face to go with his smooching sounds directed at Bruce. Hal the imbecile laughs along, already on board with the guy's antics, which should have been a given. Bruce feels his own IQ drops several points on their behalf, but he forces himself to exhale and digs in.

Never mind the fact that Lick It Up is one of the most obnoxious songs to ever disgrace the earth, Tony Stark can sing, no doubt. If Bruce were to classify him, he would probably put him somewhere in the spinto range, baritenor at best. His talking voice sounds deeper than his singing voice.

 _Don't want to wait 'til you know me better_  
_Let's just be glad for the time together_  
_Life's such a treat and it's time you taste it_  
_There ain't a reason on earth to waste it_  
_It ain't a crime to be good to yourself_

 _Lick it up, lick it up, ooh yeah it's only right now_  
_Lick it up, lick it up, ooh yeah_  
_Lick it up, lick it up, ooh yeah, come on, come on_  
_Lick it up, lick it up, ooh uh_

Stark sings in a natural tenor register, resonates well in his vowels even with no bass to his singing voice. He can perform, too, of course, overly so at that, and that's where the big problem lays. Bruce interrupts him with a screeching riff just as Stark is grinding his pelvis against the poor, innocent microphone stand.  
  
“Thank you. I think that's enough.”

Stark lifts his shades and blinks his surroundings into place. He first looks perplexed, then angered. “I haven't even started the second verse, what the hell? This audition a hoax or what?” Bruce frowns at the way his pupils seem too dilated in the well-lit studio room. And scowls even harder. “We're not looking for a stage clown.” Dark shades flash in the spotlight from above as Stark rams them back on his nose.  
  
“It's called making love to the music, what's wrong about that?”

Bruce Wayne's eyes zero in on him, narrowing until the frown lines in between them are deep valleys. “It's called dry humping and fellating an inanimate object, and there's so much wrong with that I don't know where to start.” The microphone makes a loud and grating feedback noise as Stark dunks it back into its holder. “Well, thanks for having me anyhow.” His voice is acid as he slams the door shut behind him.

Clark looks at Bruce. Bruce shrugs without letting go of his perpetual frown.

He makes a mental note to give the mic a good, long scrub with Purell later on.

*****

Once Fury gets wind of Tony's solo plans, he does not approve. In the slightest.

“You little ungrateful punk, do you think you can go double-cross me?”

Outside of his office, the rest of The Avengers sit and listen to the yelling that erupts as their manager tries again to make him sign the “goddamn NDA”. In the end, Tony storms out of the room, kicks the door shut, and tells everybody not to try and fuck with him.

Steve, who is immune to threats, is the only one who dares to venture after him.

*****

Diana, sweet and dedicated person she is, takes the whole audition situation serious. After the critique of her performances and the more or less failed results in finding someone to take over her leading role, she goes and tries out a more Amazonian, aggressive vibe. Bruce approves, Clark looks worried but agrees if it makes her happy, and Hal suggests going back to keyboard.

“The heck you will.” Bruce's voice is low and seething. “Not when this is finally getting somewhere.” It must have been the manic glint in his eyes that makes his comrades back away slowly like they are dealing with a dangerous, unpredictable animal. Sometimes, Bruce Wayne is just as scary as a leopard. He snarls at them one last time before going back to record voice-memo song ideas on his phone.

*****

Tony and Steve go their separate ways after having a very vocal, very nasty shouting match out in the parking lot. Stark gets in his supercharged 1965 Pontiac GTO with the customized paint job and rims and leaves for SteamGrove - a three-day festival in upstate New York – to, as the name implies, blow off some steam.

Alone.

*****

Their new-found strategy seems to work. Diana sings like a warrior princess who is heading out front-row into battle, and people's interest starts growing. During one of their afternoons at the recording studio, she has brought a music magazine along. In between takes, she holds up the magazine against the window pane, pointing at a small article, stretching the cord from her earphones to the max.

“Look, they're calling us the Holy Trinity. That's neat. Maybe we should name our next album that?”

Behind the big-as-anything mixer console that looks straight out of a prop-sale from Star Trek, Bruce palms half of his face and tries at least to hide his groan. Clark who sits next to him gives her a bright heart-eyed smile and thumbs up. Hal is not present to feel incensed about being left out by the press, because he is still in Coast City, sleeping off his roaring hangover from last night's party marathon.

Serves him right, Bruce grouses, to be the band's designated also-ran with that lax attitude of his. He peeks up from in between long fingers at Diana's beaming face and the small picture in the mag showing the three of them leaving some sort of club together. Holy Trinity my ass. Holy love triangle rather. If the two perpendicular sides of a triangle start to screw each other, the hypotenuse will be redundant.

And Bruce is the effing hypotenuse.

Here's the thing, though - Bruce has slept with both Clark and Diana. Individually and in combination. One of his less stellar moments if he is honest with himself. They were young (okay, it was last year, whatever) and drunk (that is why he's practicing abstinence these days, his foray into Buddhism was the right choice after all) and they have never spoken about it ever again, upon his explicit wish (threat).

Clark swoons so much at Diana, it makes Bruce want to hurl the microphone from the recording room at his head. If they keep this up, there will be no more trinity. He will kill them first, like the sharp, pointy, evil-spirited hypotenuse he is. Bruce then focuses back on the many blinking switches and buttons in front of him. He does not care for lovey-dovey threesomes. He does not care for lovey-dovey. Period.

“Can we get that chorus line one more time?”

*****

Bruce bumps into Stark at SteamGrove because the festival grounds are small and fate is a bitch. He had only meant to talk to some of the producers and, okay, maybe look around for potential male singers after all. None of his band colleagues know about his ulterior motive. So what? Bruce likes to be prepared for all eventualities. That, sadly, does not include coming face to face with a famous rock 'n roll troll.

By now, Stark's hair has regrown into a true 80's disaster, and to go with it, he struts around in a tight ensemble of black wifebeater and red leather pants like the little attention whore he is. Emphasis on little. Damn, the guy really is short. Bruce, on the other hand, is dressed in a -for him- uncommon combo of jeans, casual plaid shirt and, heaven forbid, a baseball hat in navy blue. The things he does for anonymity.

It angers him all the more how Stark goes and recognizes him in an instant -at a distance of ten feet, no less- and dares to give a jaunty wave.

“My, my. Almost had me fooled there, Spooks. Today's Black-Leather-Fetish-Washing-Day or what?”

“Funny. I could've sworn it was Dress-A-Midget-In-Too-Tight-Clothes-Day.”

Stark laughs in a way that does not sound like he is amused.  
  
“The most expensive perfume comes in small flasks, ever heard of that? Also: Fuck you.”

Speaking of bottles, Bruce cannot help but ask him outright about his drug consummation. Tony surprises him by giving an equally frank answer. “Outpatient rehab. Don't wanna go full monk so I'm trying the moderation route and see if it works, y'know?” Bruce does not know but does not say so either. “People I work with need to be clean. First rule.” Another laugh, this time less hostile and more wistful.

“That's why you shunned me? Your poor morals got a li'l squicked out?” Stark's eyes drill into him, but Bruce's poker face is going strong. “Among other things.” An incredulous snort. “Oh, yeah, I remember. You're the 'dry humping' fella. Grew up in a boarding school with nuns, eh?” In fact, Bruce has been to boarding school as a kid, but hell would freeze over before he goes and tells that anyone.

“You tripping out fucked up your performance. That's all.”

Stark drops his chin to his chest and pulls his tinted shades down with two fingers; just enough to give him a dismissive once-over glance. “So tell me again why exactly you care what I'm consuming? Are you an altruistic narcissist?” It comes off as casual, but Bruce has always been good in reading between the lines. “I don't, and I'm not.” Stark casts him a smirk that says he knows how to read between the lines, too.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

He pushes his shades all the way back up and they part ways, with Bruce resuming his scrounge and Stark letting himself wallow in the public attention. People at the festival of course recognize Tony Stark, and he gets into autograph and picture taking sessions every two minutes. They hush and whisper behind Bruce's back, unsure whether it is him without all of the on-stage makeup. It makes the Gothamite proud.

At least until he has searched the festival ground high and low and came up empty. No one around has the potential to even be considered an addition to the Justice League. As he stands and stews at the wasted afternoon, Stark manifests by his side again. “What's with the constipated look, Mother Teresa?” Bruce pockets his phone. “Shut up.” His fingers touch the keys to his motorbike just as Stark tuts in a condescending way.

“Still no singer in sight who's able to meet your high-and-mighty requirements, huh. Wonder why that is.”  
Bruce releases the key fob and tugs his hand free, just in case he needs it. Balled into a fist, that is.  
“Don't you have a line to snort from a toilet seat somewhere?”

That makes Stark's ridiculously big eyes blaze with actual wrath.  
“Nope. Fucker. You're so full of shit, and here I was about to offer you a spontaneous jam session with me.”  
Bruce blinks. And blinks again.  
  
“... Huh?”

Looks like his usual eloquence seems to have gone taking a breather in Stark's proximity. Maybe the guy's douchebaggery is contagious. Seeing him baffled makes Stark go from angry to amused in a second. "Spoken like a true intellectual. Here's to second chances and stuff. C'mon, release your inner altruist. You know you want to. If you dare, that is.” Why in the ever loving fuck does Bruce not say no, turn on his heel, and leave?

Oh, right.  
He is still looking for a new, male singer.  
That is all there is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> info on Tony's vocal range etc. taken from here:  
> http://therangeplace.boards.net/thread/787/robert-downey-jr
> 
> 'Lick It Up' lyrics by KISS (1983)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBozyHxiPgk
> 
> Tony's customized ride inspired by this:  
> http://www.kindigit.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/GTO.jpg


	4. Chapter 4

Stark hashes it out with one of the organizers who is immediately on board. The stage is considerably smaller than what either of them is used to. That's what makes the charm of the whole gig. Also, neither of them brought any equipment along, so when Bruce gets handed an acoustic guitar, he cannot help but grimace. “Some antique shit this is.” The smile on Stark's face becomes endearing. Or sardonic, Bruce is not sure.  
  
“So we'll do something old-fashioned then. CCR? Bad Moon Rising?”

Bruce's expression must have said everything because Stark claps his hands and reaches for the bottle of water someone hands to him. “Excellent!” He gulps a good amount of it, puts the bottle down next to the microphone, and looks at his unwilling partner of the night. “Do you need the tabs or can you play by heart?” Okay, Bruce is going to kill him. Well, afterward. Too many witnesses around at present.

Instead of an answer, Wayne folds his tall physique onto the guitar chair on the side, pulls his baseball hat deeper into his face and begins to play the first chords, albeit with force. A hoot and whistle wave rolls through their small crowd of spectators as they recognize the familiar tunes. To his right, Tony bobs along, too, waiting for his cue. Once he sets in, people erupt in a hearty bout of cheers.

Stark grins, hands curled around the mic, and continues to deliver note after note. Bruce has to admit he has some serious pipes on him, even if he suffers from little-man-syndrome. During the guitar solo part, Tony turns around, still grooving along, and beams at him with a gigavolt smile. Bruce almost smiles back. Almost. He catches himself just in time, and then Stark thankfully goes back to focus on the crowd.

They get so much honest and rave applause that it even breaks through Bruce's stoic facade.

Before they know it, they keep on improvising their hearts out. The crowd is in a mood and requests 'To Be With You' by Mr. Big, singing the chorus dutifully along with Stark, so that Bruce does not have to. It is followed by a non-punk-like cover of Ruby Soho. Here, Wayne uses E minor to throw Stark for a loop, only to find out the little fucker is adaptable and forces him to sing along during the chorus this time.  
  
Eventually, Stark wants to try his hands at another classic. “Dream On by Nazareth. Okay?” His breath is warm on Bruce's face as Stark ducks and leans in close to look at him under his hat and be understood over the ruckus of chatter and applause. Bruce gives a curt nod and glimpses down at the fretboard to avoid awkward eye contact. Only Stark goes and taps his shoulder, prompting him to look up once more.  
  
“Drinks on me after this.”  
And then he goes and gives Bruce a wink.  
A fucking wink.

Of course Bruce is professional enough to take it with the same blasé look he always wears. He then watches Stark guzzle some more water before he grabs the mic again. This one is a little different, seeing Bruce has to wait for Stark's cue to start playing, not vice versa. As it turns out right after the first few syllables, Dream On is the one song where Tony Stark really gets to shine.

His upper register immediately brings the song to life and sounds so comfortable that Bruce almost forgets they are just improvising for shits and giggles and not actually for a paying audience. Speaking of audience, the crowd around them has doubled in numbers by now, from what can be seen in the dim light. People are singing along, some are even holding up their lighters at some point.

Stark puts so much agony and husk in his voice that it fully does Dan McCafferty's trademark rasp justice. During the final chorus, he then bends over backward dramatically, holding on to the microphone stand like a lifeline. It has the desired effect on the spectators (mostly the females) as he shows how flexible he is in his figure-hugging wifebeater and obscenely tight leather pants, languishing for the audience.

Oh yes, Bruce is impressed. Not that he'd ever tell. What he also never would tell is that Stark's quite ample butt in those tight pants causes him to go hard. He has to spend the rest of the goddamn song holding the acoustic guitar at a certain angle, because, spectators. And cameras. He scowls hard to compensate for it. Once applause thunders through the hall, Stark turns to look at him, sweated and grinning from ear to ear.

Bruce's hard-on decides to stay for a little while longer. Great. Apparently, he's gay for a guy who is not (yet?) his new band colleague.

Could things get any worse?

(spoiler warning: Yes, apparently they can)  
  
*****

Their rendition of 'Dream On' lingers on in Bruce's mind long after they have left the stage and catch a cab.

Stark piles into the backseat next to him like it is a given, and gives out an address to a very shady sounding bar. Bruce wonders why he does not protest. He does not even go for drinks with his band colleagues. It is way past midnight when they end up in a corner of some hole-in-the-wall shag that reeks of cigarette smoke, beer, and cheap linoleum. "What'cha wanna drink?" Bruce shrugs. He is not about to get drunk anyhow.

Stark returns with two Miller High Life and clinks their bottles together before he takes a sip.  
"We're not that bad, eh?"  
Bruce gives a noncommittal grunt and busies his mouth.

Miller High Life tastes like ripe armpits smell. Figured. “This here is bad.” He tilts the bottle in question. Stark curls his lip. "So you're a fancy fella. Fine with me.” He leans in so close as he says it that Bruce can see the whites in his ridiculously large eyes. Seriously, the guy could give Bambi a run for its money. Only Bambi most likely never burped into anybody's face like Stark burps into his just then.

After chugging all of his beer in one go, Stark slams the bottle onto the bar and snaps his fingers at the bartender. As soon as they have eye contact, Stark mouthes something and holds up two fingers. Two tumblers filled with amber on ice appear in front of their noses a few minutes later. “This better?” Bruce raises the tumbler to his lips and sniffs its contents like a cautious animal. A sip confirms it is some sort of bourbon.

While he puts his glass back down, Stark fishes out the two ice cubes from his tumbler and throws them into a nearby ashtray. Bruce waits for him to light up a cigarette and start smoking, but he does not. “So what's all of this about tonight?” His question makes Stark raise an eyebrow, seeing his mouth is currently busy sipping on his undiluted drink.

“Your interest in joining the Justice League comes with an ulterior motive. I'd like to know which one.” Because, thinks Bruce, it takes one to know one. Plus, if he is in 'Bruce the predator' mode, he can not get sidetracked by his treacherous loins. Or Stark's white teeth. Or his long eyelashes. His opposite puts down his near-empty glass and squints up at him with a click of his tongue. “The Avengers are through, lemme tell you.”

Oh.

There goes an interesting bit of gossip. Stark must already be drunker than assumed. Bruce's eyes dart around for eavesdroppers. There are none. He glimpses at the fast-melting ice cubes and leans in closer. “How so?” Stark's sturdy fingers curl around the glass, pushing it back and forth on the wooden bar counter. “Nick's been sprouting crap about an NDA and that's not gonna happen. I'm this close to flyin' the coop."

He holds up a marginal space between thumb and index finger. Bruce is grateful for perfecting his poker face over time. Hal, that asshole, had the audacity to dub it his trademark rapeface, to which Bruce had told him he should please go and fuck himself. For an authentic mimicry effect, Bruce also reaches for one of his drinks. "That's quite the confession." The more Miller he chugs, the more its taste grows on him. Like fungus. Or warts.

Stark lifts his glass but does not drink. “Well, you tol' me you grew up with nuns, so Imma take my chances.” An audacious glint enters his eyes. Bruce glowers at him from underneath the brim of his hat. “The fuck I did.” To go with his incensed hiss, Bruce goes and empties his beer in one go. His fingers then curl around his untouched bourbon before they start to move. A natural reflex. It is the guitarist in him.

Stark chortles. His breath smells of licorice. “No need t'get huffy. Cheers." Out of another reflex, Bruce toasts him and chugs down a good portion of his bourbon. After Miller had nuked his tastebuds, he does not even notice the burn down his throat anymore. "But, please, this isn't all about me, even though I'm used to that." Stark puts an elbow up on the counter, head in his hand. "Got anything to share with the class, Wayne?"

Bruce shakes his head and it makes the whole room spin. He grits his teeth and claws one hand into the chopped edge of the counter. He should leave. He was not going to get drunk, and part of him still clings on to that hope. Only...

"Your ass is spectacular in those pants. That's all."

Damn. Did he just say that out loud? Judging from the look on Stark's face, he did. He needs to leave. Go and eat something. Drink lots of water. Get a good night's sleep. Go for a run tomorrow... Bruce must have been a little too lost in thought for a second because he jerks when there is a hand on his bare arm and warm fingers dig into his skin. "Really now." Stark tilts his head back and laughs out loud. Bruce only stares at him.

His mullet-worthy hair looks so damn thick and shiny.

“If only you could see your rapeface right now. Priceless.”

The heck is it with these cocky little, smart-mouth assholes. Bruce must be drawn to those like a magnet. Opposed to Hal Jordan, however, Bruce can totally picture himself fucking that cheeky grin off of Stark's face. Multiple times. Fuck, he really is smashed. Too smashed to lean back when Stark's face is suddenly mere inches from his. “Here's what, though. It turns me on. You turn me on. How's that for a confession?”

Bruce blinks, at a loss for words. Again. He mentally screams at his sluggish brain to come up with something good, something acerbic, something...  
  
“... I see.”

Brilliant, Bruce. Brilliant.

*****

Bruce wakes to the loud and unmerciful beeping of an alarm clock. He has never heard that one before.

“Ugh. Ugh, wha---?”

His head feels like it is about to explode. He cracks an eye open and finds himself in a bed that is also not his. Next to him, the blanket rises and an arm pokes out, palm putting an end to the offending loud alarm. Seconds later, a dark mop of tousled hair appears. “Mornin', Spooky. You snore, anybody ever told ya? But damn, you give such good head, I'll let it slide. Wanna stay for breakfast? I do a mean French toast.”

Oh, shit.

Shit, shit, shit!

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit department for this chapter: 
> 
> Bad Moon Rising acoustic cover:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbXHGUaellY  
> Original:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BmEGm-mraE
> 
> Mr. Big acoustic cover:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqCyHmJ9KuU
> 
> Ruby Soho cover:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EswGnYIodz4  
> Original:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUHf5_3Od9s
> 
> Dream On cover:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPILx3PMI2Q  
> Original:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrecCqAPfPw
> 
> The part where Tony bends over backward is a loving nod to Paul Stanley's performance in KISS 'Reason To Live' music video: https://youtu.be/HshQidqYxjg?t=194


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce dons the black shades inside. No one dares to ask because he is a rock star. And hungover as fuck. “We should give Stark one more chance. He's good when he's sober.” Clark smells of decent, crispy detergent and full-fledged, not-so-silent judgment. Judgment on why his teammate is reeking of booze and cigarettes and looks as if he has been put through the wringer, except for the fact his clothes are rumpled.

“No, I don't want this. Besides, I am happy with Diana at the helm.”

Of course you are, Bruce thinks with all the hidden cynicism he can muster up but keep away from the visible part of his face. If I were to tap that, I'd be happy with her on my helm, too. Did that sound jealous? No, more like disappointed. Truth is, Clark and he go way back, way before Diana even became a topic. Too bad things are not in a 'bros before hoes' range anymore, or how that stupid saying goes.

Clark's lips are still moving, so Bruce's addled mind makes a halfway honest effort to tune back in. “.... also, we have spoken to this very influencing producer. Lex Luthor said he is going to give us the recognition and the financial outcome we deserve!” Oh, God, Bruce thinks. Now he talks in 'we' mode. Stage three of cringe-worthy couples stuff. At this point, Bruce knows it is way beyond hopeless for sure.

Still, he gives it one more try, to lure Clark back from the abyss that is long dark hair and dominant behavior paired with an athletic physique. “By what? By going down a mind-controlled route at the beck and call of a slimy producer who's ready to take over all of our creative freedom? No thanks. Come on Clark, try to get the blood from your wiener back into your brain and think for one fucking second.”

Uh-oh. Not the best way to start this discussion if Bruce is to judge by the crinkle of blue behind black-rimmed nerd glasses.

“My relationship with Diana has nothing to do with this, Bruce. This is low, even for you.”

Really now, it is not.

“So what if I tell you I know how we'll be able to score our own headliner shows from now on?”

Now _that._ _That_ is low, even for Bruce. Clark does not know why yet, but Bruce does.

“I... well, that does sound great, but... how?”

As the former farm boy from Kansas stops in his tracks with a confused look on his face, Wayne's smirk grows dark. “I know some intel about Stark and The Avengers. If we play our cards right, next year is going to be ours.” Clark looks like Bruce has just given him the keys to his own castle high above the skies. “Part of me doesn't want to know how you did that. The other part of me wants you to tell me everything. Right now.”

Something begins to gnaw at the blackened glob that is, or used to be, his conscience. Bruce ignores it. As usual. Despite his roaring hangover, he remembers the NDA conversation after SteamGrove well. And that is how he manages to fuck things up spectacularly. Well, not for the JLA, but for Tony and his loose tongue. Two weeks after their acoustic jam session at the festival, the word is out that Tony Stark is planning to quit.

The reactions are instant. Concert managers are withdrawing their bookings.  
The Avengers' ticket sales drop like a rock. No, more like Mount Rushmore.  
Too bad Bruce Wayne does not care.

Or does he?

*****  
  
Throughout all the ruckus regarding the potential Avengers' split, the JLA experiences a massive inquiry boost. Bookings go up, and for the first time in their band history, Bruce has to rely on electronic devices instead of his high-level-IQ capacities to make sure he does not double-book them by accident. Clark tries to help but Bruce prefers to be in control all the time. Hal calls him a freak. He calls Hal a fool. It evens things out.

Bruce's spare time gets cut down until all he does is either giving country-wide concerts or holing himself up in his office under their recording studio to scheme and organize everything from contracts to merchandise to ticket distribution. But here is the real deal. Karma is an even bigger bitch than Bruce is, and she manages to kick him in the proverbial nuts not only once, but twice within the upcoming weeks.

The first time is after pulling another late-nighter.

When Bruce leaves the recording studio at 2 am, there is a person waiting for him in the parking lot. "You fucker." Tony Stark steps out of the shadows. He is wearing a dark hooded sweater over a baseball hat and a very, very angry expression on his face. "You did this. You sold me out. Fuckin bastard. You were just using me to get a head start on our booking contracts. Admit it, you fucking dickhead.”

Bruce stays quiet. He should say no he was not, because that is what people do when they scam and lie. Bruce may be an asshole, but one that holds himself accountable for it at least. That is why he says “Don't be ridiculous.” It is not the same thing, and it sure as hell makes Tony go even redder in the face.

Distracted by the mental image of Stark looking like Rumpelstiltskin, Bruce completely misses out on the left hook that comes out of nowhere and sends him stumbling back into the passenger side of someone's car. It is a good thing the car is old and does not start blaring its alarm to add a nice little tinnitus to Bruce's already persistent headache. He wipes the back of a hand over his lips and straightens up.

The punch has not managed to draw blood but Bruce's whole jaw is tingling. It is still no excuse for what is leaving his mouth next. “You could still come sing for us.” Oh, Bruce. His conscience should really be rolling in its grave by now. Or maybe it watches him dig his own grave. For a split second, Stark looks as if he is about to hit him again, but does not. “Get out of my face forever you dirty sonofabitch.”

He then turns on his heel, gravel spitting left and right, and leaves in what can only be described as a classic muscle car in porn-star-metallic-red, dramatically screeching tires included. Okay, so that went well. Not. Bruce would have taken it in stride, easily, if it was not for the second kick to his karma-sensitive balls.

This one is courtesy of none other than Clark, who has retreated to his infuriatingly secret plan B which consists of hiring Lex Luthor as their manager now that they have so much on their plate. Still fuming and pissed off at anybody and himself, Bruce's answer is more belligerent than usual. “Fucking forget it! I'm not selling my soul to the devil, Clark.” Blue eyes look at him as if Bruce has just kicked a puppy. On purpose.

“I am sorry you feel this way, Bruce.”

Only Clark Kent can manage to make an official split sound so goddamn polite. At least Bruce gets to slam the door once he leaves the studio and heads for his Ducati Diavel in carbon black. Revving the engine hard feels even more satisfying, and he heads out onto the freeway; fuck the speeding limit and everything else.

Looks like the stakes were just a bit too high this time.

*****

Tony is at home, bored out of his mind and strongly considering to get drunk on what is left of the tequila in his home bar when his doorbell rings. Outside stands none other than a glum and morose-looking man dressed in black. He does the only right thing: He slams the door in Bruce's face. After three seconds, it rings again. By the time he yanks the door open, Tony's fist is raised and ready to find its way into Bruce's face.

Only this time, Tony finds himself pushed back, fist grabbed tight in a palm, and Bruce Wayne's face inches from his.  
“I am an asshole, your punching stance is shit, and we need to talk.”  
Over tequila for Tony and tap water for Bruce, they talk.

The contract Nick Fury made Tony sign at the beginning of his career is supposedly boilerplate, but Bruce's schooled eyes spot several pitfalls which are sadly legal and enforceable. Also, it is unilateral instead of bilateral. In short: Fury has him by the balls. To compensate for his own dick move (not literally), Bruce helps Tony out of the legal mess and gets some of his best lawyers in on the case.

It is no surprise that the head honcho gets in touch with his eccentric and elusive employer, asking about any steps to be taken in terms of the recent changes of his own musical career. Bruce declines. He does not want beef with his former band colleagues. Come to think of it, neither does Tony. Their strategy, therefore, includes throwing an obscene amount of money at the situation and let the legal dogs have a go at it.

During the long and gruesome process of the next 24 hours, they go and found 'The Iron Bat'.

It is not that gruesome of a process, really, because there is pizza, tequila, and so much fucking involved that Bruce hopes to be able to atone for all of his sins before his 30th  birthday. A visit to a local church fundraiser might just about do. Or eight. “You've got mad chops, B. I think we're gonna rule the world of rock together.” Tony is sitting cross-legged on his bed, bare as can be, and blows little smoke rings into the air.

He alternates between flicking the ashes into an empty pizza box or an empty tequila bottle strewn around them. After two days of indecent behavior, it is not only Stark's bedroom which looks thoroughly fornicated. Bruce has pulled a muscle in his glutes, and Tony says he is sore in places he never thought he could be sore. “I think you're megalomanic.” Tony's hair is sticking up in all directions, adding to his devilish grin.  
  
“But would you still blow me?”

Bruce would.

The future is starting to look a lot brighter than before.

*****

They go and scrounge up a drummer and a bassist via strategically placed ads in the papers. Oliver Queen from Starling City is quick and nimble on the bass whereas mild-mannered Bruce Banner seems too mellow for the job. At first. Once Stark and Wayne witness him go crazy behind the drums, their decision is unanimous. Having two Bruces on the band delights Tony to no end, and he comes to a (for him) logical conclusion.

“We gonna call him Hulk because that's exactly what he does when he's given a pair of drumsticks.”

Tony and Bruce spent another obscene amount of money (they both can afford it) to produce a music video for their first song called 'Fire Below'. It plays on top of a mountain and gets shot from at least two helicopters at the same time. There are tons of close-ups of Tony doing smoldering poses, Bruce's melodic shredding solo, and pyrotechnics shooting up into the skies.

Their strategy pays off and 'Fire Below' goes straight to number 1. Their album is called 'It's Crazy But It's Not', seeing Bruce resented Tony's original title suggestion 'Come Tight'. It features 13 tracks and a bonus acoustic version because that has become Tony's kink ever since their very first jam session at SteamGrove. Jamming with Bruce, preferably naked and in bed.

Bruce does not indulge him often, because he says they are no goddamn gay John Lennon-Yoko Ono ripoff. Besides, playing guitar naked makes for some very unpleasant chafing in sensible places. Tony thinks it is the right time to remind Bruce of that voucher he has gotten him for his birthday to get his dick pierced. Part of Bruce feels enamored, part of him wants to tell Stark where to shove it.

Then again, he knows the answer to that one already, and thus makes a point in looking into piercing studios whenever they are in-between gigs.

Their first tour has them headlining right from the get-go.

People in the crowd are holding up banners and signs again, and Bruce almost has an aneurysm at spotting one huge glitzy banner that reads 'I Want You To F*** Me, Tony!!!' On the outside, Wayne is perfectly stoic and impassive as usual. Inside, his inner monologue goes through various stages. Part of him thinks its cute. As if Tony would. His ego is puffed up enough, he does not need horny teenagers begging to be deflowered.

Bruce squint-scowls harder at the mob of moshing people.

Who holds that goddamn sign? Poor devil is as good as dead.

*****

Eventually, they get so famous that MTV wants them to do a Behind The Scenes documentation. Tony is on board right away while Bruce, of course, is not. It takes a lot of persuasion and even more of what Tony calls 'compliance fucking' to get his 'better half' (or was it lesser half?) to finally cave in and agree. A week later, several big broadcasting vans with even bigger MTV logos on them block the driveway of Tony's crib.

The crib is actually a mansion - as overblown as Tony's ego and twice as eccentric.

Its owner struts around in a pair of designer shades which are either perched on his nose or his head, tight boxer briefs, and a floral Gucci bathrobe made from silk. He gets asked questions by MTV about this or that rock song, and Tony Stark keeps on spouting nonsense that makes it out in public because he prides himself on having no filter and has an opinion on why he and Bruce would have done this or that song differently.

Also, he takes great pleasure in rubbing it in Bruce's face by saying stuff like “Oh, yeah, Whole Lotta Love by Led Zepplin. Bruce always plays that one way too slow. Puts me to sleep faster than NyQuil. Anything else though, I don't mind him going slow.” Then Tony leans forward, chews obscenely obvious on his gum and winks at the camera. It is during one of those 'no-filter' takes that Bruce goes and requests a chainsaw.

For reasons.

It makes him look edgy, he tells the producers.

Luckily, MTV is super down for an edgy dolly-shot.

It involves Bruce running down a corridor in his birthday suit, wielding said chainsaw, and doing a haphazard job at covering up his private parts. Tony meanwhile has dug up a ridiculous wig from God-knows-where and also managed to rid himself of his clothes, because "If Bruce is naked, I want in - pun intended" and because Stark expresses how he "really hates tan lines, and we're so gonna do an outdoor scene".

Things escalate when Tony tells his lover to be careful not to chop off his dick, although it probably is too small for that, to which Bruce lets the chainsaw roar and starts chasing him through the house and around the pool. MTV has the guts to put a metal rendition of Bad Moon Rising over that scene even if they deeply regret having to blur out the deliberate full frontal Stark gives the cameras in post-production.

Yes, life is good.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's motorbike by Ducati:  
> http://www.ducatiusa.com/bikes/diavel/diavel_carbon/index.do
> 
> Meloding shredding by Andy James, used as inspiration for Bruce:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQTxNg1dcHA
> 
> Metal rendition of Bad Moon Rising by Leatherwolf:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEthOG11POo
> 
> The following GIFs from the movies American Psycho and Restoration are NSFW and inspired the final scene:
> 
> http://78.media.tumblr.com/7da22012ebcdaa4e02f7ad3e517ac38e/tumblr_inline_mzds5gBQaa1rfkell.gif  
> https://i.makeagif.com/media/3-12-2015/GVcDkm.gif
> 
> If you made it this far through this wacko fic, I'll get to say thanks for reading :)


End file.
